


The Field Beckons

by Caleb_L



Category: Original Work
Genre: Destruction, Other, Post-War, Reflection, Self-Doubt, Self-Reflection, Self-Sacrifice, Suffering, Ultimate Sacrifice, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:07:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caleb_L/pseuds/Caleb_L
Summary: A man's ambition is indomitable but his heart is not infallible.





	The Field Beckons

The field was forever transformed. Scars, craters, and corpses littered this vast landscape. The stench was insufferable: gunpowder, blood, bodily odor, and waste all merged together to create a grisly, morbid scene of hatred and suffering. There were no heroics here, the heat of battle forfeited that idea to make way for its savagery. Fire rushed over grass, a crematorium to which all those that linger shall submit to whether they live or not.

Amidst this display stood a soldier. Broken. His pride and dignity were battered and bruised. He enlisted with dreams of glory, to fight for his nation and those he cared about. But now he stands alone in a sea of carcasses with no one left to live for. He is truly just a cog in the machine. War does not decide victors, just who is left in its wake. He survived, though no one really cares for him; there are a million others to tend to. He is nothing but a used up machine, left without purpose and no turning back. The innocence and hopefulness that once resided in his young eyes were replaced with jaded discontent. There was hardly anything left, nothing but distant echoes and a grim reminder of humanity’s wasted potential. He made his way down the hill, caring little for what laid in his way -- he needed to escape that tomb if there was any hope of keeping himself sane.

He reached the foot of the incline to see another body all by its lonesome. A young woman, a soldier little older than himself laid dead. She was shot three times in the abdomen, and from the look of it, her death was not peaceful. No one here had a peaceful death; all had the same expression of fear and pleading forever imprinted into their eyes. She clutched a photo in her hand, of what seemed to be a man and a toddler. It was her family. He normally would have had a rush of sorrow and pain at the sight, but instead, he felt nothing but apathy. He stopped his trek to stare forlornly at this scene until he could not bear it for much longer. The soldier continued away from that hopeless sight. He was done with all of it. He dropped his weapon; the warrior needed it no longer. Moving into the forest, he had a new destination in mind.

The smoke dissipated as he walked farther, unable to hold him in its grasp forever. The forest was utterly serene. A peaceful bliss that he has not seen in a long while, though a tormented mind withheld any sort of relief that could come from it. He saw the animals skittishly racing about, nothing to care about except for their own well-being and survival. The soldier envied their carelessness, their unburdened shoulders free from philosophical strain. Slowly his apathy gave way to anger, not of a person but rather a society. A society which cared little for him, it cared only for bloodshed and nothing else. It is a construct that has broken free, no longer subject to its creators. Is it really a creation? Or rather, something that has always existed to control and dictate us? The soldier did not know. An expendable is what he is and what he will always be; the world had no need of him, it would just keep moving, it would not halt to mourn some pitiful creature. 

His anger reached its climax, he screamed and threw a rock into the treetops. The forest reacted with silence, all was still and everything ceased; birds put their cheerful melodies into a rest; the animals ran away, startled by his outburst. The boy felt utterly alone. Feeling guilty for ruining such a scene. But then, nature rebounded and everything came back in triumph. The soldier was astonished by the resilience of the forest. An eerie feeling of helplessness and feeling small embedded itself inside him, and with that, he marched on.

Only an hour into the trek, the young soldier reached the sights of past skirmishes. Bodies littered the forest. He took no heed to the corpses, for he had seen enough of them for a lifetime. A stream encroached into sight and immediately he felt a sudden intensity of thirst. Bolting towards the creek, he knelt hastily, sunk his head into the water and drank up the sweet water without manners. Soon, he stopped, gazing thoughtfully down at the humble stream. Was this what he had devolved into? A mindless animal? Back home, if faced with this amount of thirst, he would calmly drink with his hands. This is what the war did to him. War stole all dignity and worth from him, gutting him until he was nothing but an animal without the capability of reasoning. He rose up -- no longer willing to satisfy his mortal needs. He continued onward, wading through the icy creek towards the rendezvous.

...

The brazen day -- that had witnessed the loss of such trivial lives -- soon led to impending solemn dusk as its sympathetic heart gazing upon the red fields, slowly darkening in response to the unadulterated horror and sorrow. The soldier followed the trail carelessly. It is said that it is about the journey and not the destination; though if the destination will be as twisted as the trek, then what is the point? He didn't know.

He arrived at a gate; it was rusted, worn and seemingly unimportant, but the soldier knew better and pushed through the wrecked entryway. A barn stood alone on a field. The structure was barely holding on, pushed to the brink by age, and by its sudden misuse as a base. When the barn was in its prime, it was an emboldened and vivid red, but a melancholy maroon is all that lingers. Bullet holes riddled it. However, it held firm and seemed unmovable, out-weathering the turmoil and strife. He walked to the establishment, caring not if it was held by the enemy nor his allies. That is when he first saw movement, soldiers rushing the wounded into the barn, regardless of their loyalty. His pace quickened until he reached the barn door. He walked inside without anyone questioning him. There was no use of spies anymore

Inside the barn, there was a medical center, which was dreadfully overcrowded. The makeshift infirmary was turbulent with screams of agony, which was accompanied by the noise of medicinal tools performing their functions. This clinic was separated from the rest of the barn by curtains, giving the patients and doctors little privacy. The soldier was drawn towards this section, moving the curtains out of the way and encountering another grisly sight. Blood stained the dirt floor as it dripped from tools wielded by doctors. Without context, most would assume this to be a horrid display of butchery and gore, not heroes working tirelessly and diligently to save what little they could. The young soldier stood in horror; he had seen numerous corpses, but seeing the living put into such similar circumstances made him nauseous. As if on cue, the raw stench hit him. It was not as vibrant and strong as the miasmas of the bodies prior, but such a setting made the smell hit him harder. He retched until his throat grew coarse and vomit was rising slowly up.

After what seemed like a meaningless eternity, he managed to quell his gagging and began to look around. To his immediate right laid another soldier, whose tag named Nocere. He was slumped upon a broken bed; riddled with serious wounds. The young soldier glanced at Nocere, and something innate guided him towards the wounded man. He reached the bed in a few paces and studied the middle-aged man. His beard burned a bright auburn, it looked like an autumn breeze taking form. His face was caked with dirt and showed its age. The laugh lines upon his face seemed only to serve as irony, for tears of pain or sorrow lingered on his cheek. Nocere was dying. The boy believed he understood his duty now: to comfort this man until he passed on. The mortally wounded man looked up to see his new visitor and smiled through clenched teeth and his eyes shone with brilliant warmth.

The young man’s sympathy grew immensely as he gazed upon the dying man, then he felt it, a force that pulled at his soul. It felt unnatural -- yet, natural at the same time. At first, it hurt, but then it didn’t, and then it was over. The boy slumped to his knees, exhausted by this experience. His vision was blurred, and so were his emotions. A supernatural force rushed through his soul, a burning sensation that came and left quickly

His sight slowly came back to him, and he saw everyone staring at him and Nocere, their faces betraying their bewilderment and shock. The boy, not appreciating such attention, shrunk away. Their eyes followed him but eventually turned back to Nocere. The boy at first stole a quick glance but found himself staring too at the dying man. The man wasn’t dying anymore. He laid there with eyes closed, but his chest rising up and down more defined than before. His wounds gone and faded, leaving nothing but tattered, bloody clothes. Even his age seemed to be mended as newfound youthfulness was found upon his face. It was a miracle that seemed to the boy, was done by his hand. A doctor soon snapped out of their trance and grabbed the young boy’s hand, bringing him to the other wounded soldiers for more miracles. But an unknown animalistic terror seized the kid, and he ripped his hand away and ran.

He ran like he never had before. Fast and ungraceful, as if he was running for his life. He heard yelling behind him, he didn’t care. Swinging open the barn door in a hurry, he bolted faster than before. A few guardsmen attempted to stop him, but he pushed them aside like they were just branches and nothing else. He ran onward until he was well out of sight of the barn. Stopping, he sat down at a tree exhausted. He tore off his glove and stared at his hand. Horror was plastered on his face, his hand appeared fine at first, but there was something there that would cause such fear in all. In the middle of his hand was something that seemed supernatural, a quarter size portion of his hand was nearly transparent like a ghost. However, the reason for his fright wasn’t because he could feel it on his hand, but rather he felt it in his soul. There was a hole there now in his very existence, the feeling was indescribable but shook him to the core. Certain memories that once were vividly playing in his mind were now nothing but dust and echoes, but he could feel their absence.

For the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, he cried. He wasn’t quite sure for what exactly. Maybe it was for his current situation; maybe it was for friends who have long since been shriveled up or dead; maybe it was because of his family that he believed loved him, but then sold him away for scraps; perhaps it was all of these things and more. 

He screamed, stood up, and stabbed the tree with his blade. Suddenly pain shot up his hand, excruciating and mind-numbing. He let go of the blade but still, the suffering persisted. Desperate, he yanked the blade out of the tree. The sharp hurt stopped, replaced with a dull throb. He sat down again, the fear in his face renewed. He felt like crying again but stopped himself. Rather, he stared out in the field. Smoke rose from the treeline, but here it seemed the conflict was not fought. It was peaceful, beautiful. The tall blades of grass bending with the wind, the moonlit leaves rustling along the ground, the crisp autumn breeze, he felt it all. He felt a stream, just out of sight, racing down the hilltops and skipping through the forest. It seemed to him he was racing with it, steadily it pushed on until it dropped him off near a building -- the barn. He rose up, the horror and dread that were once upon his face were replaced with a different emotion. A steely resolve, a determination. The field beckoned to him, he knew what he must do now.

He retraced his steps with a confidence that has been absent for an eternity. He returned to the barn and pushed through the rusted gates and into the building. There was no longer a curtain separating the makeshift hospital, for now, the whole building was hospitable. The doctors, their faces worn with fatigue, looked up and saw him. Recognizing him immediately, they halted. The boy walked in and kneeled by a patient whose arm and leg were missing. A wave of sympathy and a sense of duty hit him, and that all too familiar sensation occurred. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the patient’s limbs were there now, soft and clean. He stood up again and stared at his hand, the hole was now the size of a baseball now. He sighed and moved on to the next. An eternity passed, each patient more seriously injured than before, each patient now healed and saved.

He neared toward the end of the beds when he stopped. The transparency had grown and covered his body, no spot was truly unaffected. He had reached his limit. He looked down, his uniform fading. He could barely make out his own last name on his shirt, Icaerus, which he forgot belonged to him immediately afterward. Now men more honorable would have rushed to save those last few, men more selfish would have cried at their state, but the boy was now neither of those two types of men. Instead, he searched his mind for any remaining memories, but could only find one. In it was a group of people smiling, staring at him. It was his family, or was it? He wasn’t sure. He felt himself fading now, slipping into the unknown. No fear was upon him, only content. Smiling, everything around him faded and ceased.

Time heals. The wartorn fields overtime were mended; trees that had died were replaced with new, younger ones; the grass that was once burned grew back stronger than before; the wildlife soon forgot the noise of guns; all memories of this atrocity faded over time. But the field itself, never truly forgot, because somewhere there was a tree. It laid humbly in the hilltops and at its side, laid a rusty old blade.


End file.
